I have to admit, I LOVE loving me.
I’ve always masturbated — A LOT.
I was about 5 years old when I started. I knew touching myself “down there” felt really good. I also knew it wasn’t proper to bust out my stuff in the middle of the living room on a Sunday afternoon. In order to remain ladylike, I’d always wait until after I went to bed to secretly explore.
When I was a kid I didn’t know what an orgasm was or how to have one, so my personal sessions had no end point.
I masturbated incessantly for extraordinarily long periods of time. With no final goal in mind, how does one determine when to stop? I can’t count the number of times I fell asleep with my hand down my pants and a goofy smile on my face.
For the next 7 years I persistently humped every couch cushion I could get my hands on. I learned Barbie feet made good clit ticklers, and Ban Roll-On antiperspirant bottles were perfectly dildo sized. I was the reigning thumb wrestling champion at my elementary school because I had far stronger hand muscles than any other kid in town.
Fast forward to 1983, I was 12. One day my mother hands me a strange looking contraption with a long electric cord. It’s a nail buffing kit her friend bought — never used and passed on to her. Since my mother rarely did her nails, she thought I might like it instead. After all, I was getting to the age when personal grooming was supposed to become an integral part of my delicate, feminine existence.
I lifted one eyebrow, smirked and thought to myself, “Nail buffing kit, huh? HA! I’m taking this thing straight to my room and f*cking it!”
The 1980s was one of the last decades during which we could pretend women didn’t masturbate.
Touching oneself was considered dirty and shameful. You could go blind, get pimples or grow hair on your palms.
I was in college before I realized tools designed specifically for genital gratification existed. There wasn’t a sex shop in every neighborhood packed with a mind numbing selection of pleasure devices back then.
In the 80’s, we were inundated with electric vibrating personal massagers, back scratchers, scalp stimulators and buffers. We bought them for family members at Christmas from discount superstores. We pretended they really WERE for our backs, scalps and hands. It was mass blatant denial on the grandest level.
There was a huge, vibrating, phallic shaped elephant in the room we collectively ignored.
Some of us, like my mother, had no clue these machines were used for less than pure purposes. I couldn’t believe my mom was actually using her Hitachi Magic Wand for her shoulders! She was clearly missing out on so much in life.
My new best friend was a little hand held electric device that accepted interchangeable “buffing” attachments. Some had rough, sandpaper like bumps designed for rigorous nail filing. The fine grit and smooth attachments intended for finishing were my favorite. Combined with the electric powered vibration, they were heavenly little clit stimulators in disguise.
Before trying this, I'd occasionally have something that resembled an orgasm. Today I’d call it a dud. The kind you work up to, feel the build, it’s about to hit, and then ... nothing. It fizzles out. I assumed the sensation was just a strange, but pleasant side effect that occasionally happened while pleasuring myself. I still hadn’t experienced an intense climax.
Thanks to my nail buffing kit I started having regular, mind blowing, body numbing, vulva thumping, aneurysm-tastic orgasms.
Not only was I thrilled beyond belief, I finally had a goal! No more rubbing myself into oblivion. The job was always done in less than 10 minutes!
I continued to wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am myself for the next 25 years.
What I didn’t realize was my newfound earth shattering orgasms made me lose sight of something else along the way.
Moving into adulthood, I entered relationships with people who regarded masturbation as something reluctantly resorted to when your partner wasn’t available, and only performed as a shameful last ditch effort.
I always enjoyed self-love because it was fun. It isn’t better than partnered sex nor worse — it’s simply different.
It’s as if one is cake and the other ice cream. They’re both equally as delicious for different reasons. Sometimes I have a taste for one versus the other, and sometimes I mush them together and gobble them both up at the same time. I didn’t understand why ice cream was seen as the disgraceful, inferior cousin of cake.
It wasn’t just my partners who viewed solo sexy-time this way. Pretty much everyone I knew had the same opinion. If you liked shameful, dirty, whorish ice cream, it was something best kept to yourself.
So I went to outlandish lengths to conceal my masturbation sessions.
A hurried moment in the bath or the basement doing laundry was often the only opportunity I had to flick my bean. I parked in the back of dark parking lots just to capture a moment alone to Jill myself off in my car.
I used to be my best lover. I'd spend time with me slowly going over every little nook and cranny. Sometimes me, myself and I had crazy threesomes that lasted hours.
I had fond memories of those days, but then everything became different. I became the secret, forbidden lover I was forced to hide. When we did steal a moment together, it was rushed and frenzied. No more lazy Sunday afternoon lingering and fingering. I became ashamed of me.
At 36, I became single for the first time in 18 years.
I had all the time and freedom in the world to tickle my own fancy, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it had been in my early days. The ridiculous number of sex toys I bought didn’t help either. I realized the "quality time" I spent with myself had very little to do with quality. Masturbation had become solely about the orgasm — I'd stopped appreciating all the fun spent getting there.
One evening I decided to go all out and treat myself like I would a special first time partner. I carefully showered and groomed myself. I used expensive bath wash and put on my favorite perfume. With candles lit, my boring bedroom became soft, dark and inviting. It felt a little silly — all this for just me? I had on a garter belt, stockings and sexy, high heels, which were all unusual for me to wear for a partner, much less for myself.
Before settling in on my freshly laundered bedding, I felt liquid dripping from between my legs. It splashed onto the floor.
What was this? I hadn’t even laid a hand on myself yet!
Turns out after — even all those years — I was still THAT into me.
I spent the next few hours caressing myself and doing all sorts of naughty things. I got out the clothespins and silk scarves and teased the crap out of myself.
Getting reacquainted with me was exactly what I needed. I hadn’t spent that much time loving myself, without the goal of an orgasm, in nearly 20 years.
That one solo date night taught me a valuable lesson I still carry with me years later. Each time I masturbate, I take my eyes off the prize.
Masturbation is about so much more than arriving at orgasm. It’s about the journey and truly loving yourself.
Next time you have alone time, don’t immediately zero in on third base like a high school date coping a feel behind the bleachers. Take time to appreciate yourself — your ENTIRE self.
You just might find you are the lover you always dreamed of.
This article was originally published at SunnyMegatron.com. Reprinted with permission from the author.